Chapter 16
Max
The office of Dean Sterling was designed to make you feel like an insect.
The ceiling was impossibly high, lost in shadow.
The windows were arched and narrow, letting in slivers of grey November light that illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air.
The mahogany desk was a barricade, a fortress wall behind which the man held my life in his hands.
I sat in the leather chair, my hands resting on my knees. I didn't fidget. I didn't slouch. I was the Warden.
But inside, I was screaming.
"The optics, Mr. Vane," Dean Sterling said, tapping a manicured finger on the glossy printout of the YikYak photo. "They are... unfavorable."
"It was a misunderstanding," I said, my voice flat. "She was picking lint off my collar."
"Don't lie to me," the Dean snapped. His voice wasn't loud, but it had the sharp, cutting edge of a man who was used to silencing boardrooms. "I have read the reports.
I have seen the decline in your statistics.
I have heard the rumors from the sorority house about where my daughter is spending her nights. "
He leaned forward, steepling his fingers.
"I made a deal with you, Maxwell. I offered you a future. I offered you a letter that would open doors a boy from Grafton could never dream of opening himself. In exchange, you were supposed to stabilize my daughter. You were supposed to be the anchor."
He picked up the photo and dropped it back onto the desk.
"Instead, you became the storm."
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
"I helped her," I said. "She passed her midterms. Her portfolio got an A. She hasn't been in trouble in weeks."
"Because she's obsessed with you," the Dean dismissed. "It’s a fixation. Imogen collects hobbies, Mr. Vane. Last year it was pottery. The year before it was that drummer from the drop-out band. Now, it’s you."
The insult landed like a physical blow. A hobby.
"She loves me," I said quietly.
The Dean laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.
"Love? She's twenty-one. She loves the rebellion. She loves that you're rough around the edges, that you have tattoos and scars and a tragic backstory. You're not a partner to her, Max. You're a souvenir."
He opened a folder on his desk.
"But I'm a pragmatic man. I don't care about her romantic dalliances, usually. I care about the university. I care about the hockey program. And I care about the fact that the scouts are getting nervous."
He slid a piece of paper across the desk.
It wasn't a warning. It was a termination letter. Revocation of Athletic Scholarship. Effective immediately.
"This is ready to be filed," the Dean said. "Along with a formal complaint to the NCAA regarding academic misconduct. I can make a case that you did her work for her. I can make a case that the relationship was predatory."
I stared at the paper. My name was at the top.
"If I sign this," the Dean continued, "you're done. You lose the scholarship. You owe the university forty thousand dollars in back tuition for this semester. You go home. No draft. No degree. Just... Grafton."
The room spun. The walls seemed to close in.
Forty thousand dollars. My mother didn't have forty dollars. I would be buried. I would be back in the hoarding house, drowning in garbage for the rest of my life.
"Or," the Dean said, pulling the paper back slightly. "There is Option B."
I looked up. "Option B?"
"You end it," he said. "Today. Now. You cut her off completely. You move back into the dorms. You focus on hockey. You win the championship."
"And Imogen?"
"Imogen will be fine," he waved a hand. "She'll cry for a week. She'll buy some shoes. She'll find a new distraction. But you, Max? You don't have that luxury."
He looked me in the eye.
"You have to be the villain," he said. "If you tell her I forced you, she'll fight me. She'll rebel. She'll cling to you just to spite me. You know she will."
I did know that. She was a Brat. If she thought it was forbidden, she would burn the world down to keep it.
"So you have to make her hate you," the Dean said. "You have to break her heart so thoroughly that she never looks at you again. You have to convince her that she was just... a job."
He slid a pen across the desk.
"Do we have an accord, Mr. Vane?"
I looked at the pen. I looked at the termination letter. I looked at the photo of Imogen and me, looking at each other like we were the only two people on earth.
I thought about the house with the big windows. I thought about her charcoal sketches. I thought about the way she held me when I was shaking.
And then I thought about the piles of newspapers in my mother’s hallway. I thought about the cold. I thought about being nothing.
If I stayed with her, I lost everything. And eventually, the resentment would rot us from the inside out. I would hate her for costing me my dream. She would hate me for being a failure.
I picked up the pen.
My hand was shaking.
"Fine," I whispered. "I'll do it."
"Good choice," the Dean said, sitting back. "The car is already on its way to your apartment to collect her things. You have one hour."
I stood up. My legs felt like lead.
I walked out of the office. I walked out of the building.
I stepped into the cold November air, and I realized something terrifying.
I had survived the cold my whole life. But now, walking away from the only warmth I had ever known, I wasn't sure I would survive the winter.
The drive to the apartment was a blur. I don't remember the traffic. I don't remember the lights. I just remember the rehearsed speech playing on a loop in my head.
I don't love you. You were a distraction. It's over.
Lies. All lies.
But necessary lies.
I parked the truck. I took the elevator up.
I stood outside the door to the apartment. I could hear music inside. Soft, acoustic guitar.
I unlocked the door.
Imogen was in the kitchen. She had bought flowers—lilies. She had lit a candle. She was wearing one of my sweaters, the sleeves falling over her hands.
She looked up when I walked in. Her face lit up. That smile. That damn smile that made me want to fall to my knees and confess everything.
"Max!" she chirped. "You're late. I almost called the National Guard."
I didn't smile back. I couldn't. If I cracked even a little, I would shatter.
I walked into the room. I didn't drop my bag. I kept it on my shoulder, a shield.
"Hey," I rasped.
"What happened?" she asked, her smile fading. She came toward me. "Was it Coach? Did he see the photo?"
She reached out to touch me.
I flinched. I stepped back.
"Yeah," I said. "He saw it."
"And?" She followed me. "What did he say? Did he bench you?"
"No," I said, walking to the kitchen island, putting the granite between us. "He didn't bench me."
"Okay," she breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good. That's... manageable. We can work with that."
She came around the island. She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind.
I squeezed my eyes shut. This was torture. Physical, agonizing torture. Her body was warm against mine. She smelled like cedar and rain.
"We just have to be ghosts, right?" she whispered. "Like we said. No public touches. No photos. We can do that. I'll be invisible, Max. I promise."
I'll be invisible.
The words cut me. She was already invisible to her father. To the world. She shouldn't have to be invisible to me.
I turned around in her arms.
I looked down at her. Her hazel eyes were wide, trusting. She believed in us. She believed we were a team.
"Imogen," I said.
"Shh," she squeezed me tighter. "Don't spiral. You're doing the hoarding thing in your head. You're piling up the catastrophes. Just breathe."
She moved her hands down to my stomach.
"We have the bye week," she murmured. "We have tonight. The Thai food is coming. We can turn off the phones. We can just be... us."
There is no us, the Dean’s voice echoed in my head. There is only the villain.
I grabbed her wrists. I pulled her hands off me.
"Max?" She looked confused.
"Don't talk," I said roughly. "Just... don't talk."
I kissed her.
It was selfish. It was a mistake. But I needed it. One last time. One last taste of the life I was throwing away.
I kissed her hard, desperate, pouring all the grief and apology into it that I couldn't say out loud. She melted against me, kissing me back with that fierce, open-hearted love that I didn't deserve.
Then, I pulled back.
I pushed her away. Not hard, but firmly. Enough to create space.
I walked to the other side of the island.
"We need to talk," I said.
She frowned, pulling the sleeves of the sweater down. "Okay. About what?"
"About the future."
She smiled again, relieved. She ran to the sofa and grabbed her sketchbook.
"Oh! The future. Good. Because I was drawing the house today, and I think we need a skylight in the bedroom. For the stars."
She held up the drawing.
It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was the house I wanted.
"Look," she said, walking toward me. "It’s Montreal. Or Boston. Wherever you go. I figured I could freelance..."
I couldn't look at it. If I looked at it, I would cry. And the Warden didn't cry.
"Imogen," I cut her off. "Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop planning," I said, my voice cold. "Stop drawing houses we're never going to live in."
She lowered the book. "What do you mean?"
I turned to face her. I locked my knees so they wouldn't shake.
"There is no Montreal," I said. "Not for us."
"I don't understand," she laughed nervously. "Did the scout call? Did they pass? Max, it's okay if you don't get drafted immediately. We can go to Europe..."
"It's not about the draft," I said. "It's about the scholarship."
I took a breath. This was the moment. The kill shot.
"I had a meeting with your father today."
She went pale. "My father? But... he cancelled lunch with me."
"I was the emergency," I said. "He saw the photo. He saw the YikYak thread. He brought the conduct board."
"Oh god," she whispered. "Max, I'm so sorry. I... we can explain. We can tell him—"
"I already told him," I said. "I told him exactly what he wanted to hear."
"What did you tell him?"
I looked her in the eye. I summoned every ounce of coldness I had learned from twenty years of freezing winters.
"I told him it was a mistake," I said. "I told him I was distracted. I told him that I let things get out of hand, but that it's over."
"Over?" She blinked. "Like... the mentorship?"
"No," I said. "Us. The relationship. The... whatever this is."
She stared at me. The betrayal in her eyes was like a knife to the gut.
"You're breaking up with me?"
"I have to," I said. "It was part of the deal. If I end it—publicly, permanently—he keeps my scholarship. He keeps the funding. He writes the letter to Montreal."
"So you made a deal," she said, her voice rising. "You traded me for a letter?"
"I traded a distraction for my life," I snapped. I had to make her angry. Anger was easier than grief. "Imogen, look at the last month. My stats are down. My focus is gone. I'm missing practice to sleep in. I'm fighting with teammates. I'm losing."
"You're happy!" she screamed. "For the first time in your miserable life, you're happy!"
"Happiness doesn't pay the bills!" I roared back. The anger felt good. It covered the pain. "Happiness doesn't get me out of Grafton! Happiness doesn't stop my mother from drowning in garbage!"
I paced the kitchen, agitated.
"I can't afford you, Imogen. I can't afford the drama. I can't afford the risk. You're... you're too much. You've always been too much."
She flinched. Her shoulders hunched in, making her look small.
"Too much," she whispered. "That's what you think?"
"Yes," I lied. "You're chaos. I need order. I need the wall. And you... you just smash right through it."
I picked up my keys from the counter.
"I'm moving back to the dorms," I said. "Tonight. Your father is sending a car for you. You're going back to the sorority house."
"You're kicking me out?"
"It's over, Imogen."
"After what we just did?" She pointed to the spot where we had kissed. "After you told me you loved me in that storage unit? You're just going to turn it off?"
"I have to," I said.
I walked toward the door. Every step felt like walking through wet concrete.
"Max, please," she begged. She ran to me, grabbing my arm. Her fingers dug into my jacket. "Don't do this. We can figure it out. We can fight him. I have money—"
"I don't want your money!" I shouted, ripping my arm away. "I don't want your charity! I want to earn it myself!"
I looked down at her. She was crying. Mascara ran down her cheeks. Her nose was red. She looked destroyed.
I had done it. I had broken her.
"I don't love you," I said.
The ultimate lie. The final nail in the coffin.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't say that."
"I don't," I repeated. My voice was devoid of emotion. "I thought I did. But I just loved the escape. I loved that you made me forget the pressure for a while. But the pressure is back, Imogen. And I need to work."
I opened the door.
"The car is downstairs," I said. "Pack your things. Leave the key."
"Max..."
"Goodbye, Imogen."
I walked out.
I didn't look back.
I closed the door behind me.
I stood in the hallway for a second. I heard a sound from inside—a choked sob, then the sound of something tearing. Paper.
I walked to the elevator. I pressed the button.
The doors opened. I stepped inside.
As the doors closed, the adrenaline finally crashed.
My legs gave out.
I slid down the metal wall of the elevator until I was sitting on the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest.
I put my head in my hands.
And I wept.
I wept silently, violently, my whole body shaking with the force of it.
I had saved my future. I had saved my scholarship.
But I had just cut out my own heart and left it on the other side of a locked door.
The Warden was back.
And he was completely, utterly alone.